Thud!

managed.
    “Mr. who?” said the old woman, putting a hand to her ear.
    “Mr. Shine?” said Vimes, confidence already draining out of him.
    “Never heard of him, dear.”
    “He, er, gave me this,” said Vimes, showing her the two pieces of stone egg.
    “Amethyst geode, very nice specimen, I’ll give you seven dollars,” said the old woman.
    “Are you, er, Pickles or Pointer?” said Vimes, as a last resort.
    “I’m Miss Pickles, dear. Miss Point—”
    She stopped. Her expression changed, became slightly younger and considerably more alert.
    “And I’m Miss Pointer, dear,” she said. “Don’t worry about Pickles, she just runs the body when I’ve got other things to do. Are you Commander Vimes?”
    Vimes stared. “Are you telling me you’re two people? With one body?”
    “Yes, dear. It’s supposed to be an illness, but all I can say is we’ve always got along well. I’ve never told her about Mr. Shine. Can’t be too careful. Come this way, do.”
    She led the way through the dusty crystals and slabs into the back of the shop, where there was a wide corridor lined with shelves. Crystals of all sizes sparkled down at him.
    “Of course, trolls have always been of interest to geologists, being made of metamorphorical rock,” said Miss Pointer/Miss Pickles conversationally. “You’re not a rock hound yourself, Commander?”
    “I’ve had the occasional stone thrown at me,” said Vimes. “I’ve never bothered to check what kind it was.”
    “Ha. Such a shame we’re on loam here,” said the woman as the sound of quiet voices drew nearer. She opened a door and stood aside. “I rent them the room,” she said. “Do go in.”
    Vimes looked at the top few treads of a flight of stairs, heading down. Oh goody, he thought. We’re going underground again. But there was warm light coming up, and the voices were louder.
    The cellar was large and cool. There were tables everywhere, with a couple of people at each one, bent over a checkered board. A games room? The players were dwarfs, trolls, and humans, but what they had in common was concentration. Unconcerned faces glanced toward Vimes, who had paused, halfway down the stairs, and then looked back to the game at hand.
    Vimes continued down to floor level. This had to be important, right? Mr. Shine had wanted him to see it. People—men, trolls, dwarfs—playing games. Occasionally, a couple of players would look up at each other, share a glance, and shake hands. Then one of them would go off to a new table.
    “What do you notice, Mister Vimes?” said a deep voice behind him. Vimes forced himself to turn slowly.
    The figure sitting in the shadows beside the stairway was shrouded entirely in black. He looked a good head taller than Vimes.
    “They’re all young?” he ventured, and added: “Mr. Shine?”
    “Exactly! More youngsters tend to come along in the evenings, too. Do take a seat, sir.”
    “Why have I come to see you, Mr. Shine?” said Vimes, sitting down.
    “Because you want to find out why you have come to see me,” said the dark figure. “Because you’re wandering in the dark. Because Mister Vimes, with his badge and his truncheon, is full of rage. More full than usual. Take care of that rage, Mister Vimes.”
    Mystic, thought Vimes. “I like to see whom I’m talking to,” he said. “What are you?”
    “You would not see me if I removed this hood,” said Mr. Shine. “As for what I am, I’ll ask you this: would it be true to say that Captain Carrot, while very happy to be a Watch officer, is the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork?”
    “I have trouble with the term ‘rightful,’ ” said Vimes.
    “So I understand. It may well be that this is one reason why he hasn’t yet chosen to declare himself,” said Mr. Shine. “But no matter. Well, I am the rightful—excuse me—and indisputable king of the trolls.”
    “Really?” said Vimes. It wasn’t much of a reply, but his options at this point were limited.
    “Yes. And when I say’indisputable,’ I mean what I say, Mister Vimes. Hidden human kings have to resort to magic swords or legendary feats to reclaim their birthright. I do not. I just have to be . You are aware of the concept of metamorphorical rock?”
    “You mean the way trolls look like certain types of rock?”
    “Indeed. Schist, Mica, Shale, and so on. Even Brick, poor young Brick. No one knows why this is, and they have expended thousands of words in saying so. Oh, to hell with it, as you would